Author's Notes: A very special 'THANK YOU' to The Desert Fox for consistently submitting feedback. I really appreciate it, as my stories normally do not receive a large number of reviews. If you weren't an 'anonymous' reviewer, I would PM you personally. So this shout out is just to let you know that I sincerely appreciate reading your comments!
Mr. Monk Meets Lieutenant Columbo
Murder: Evil In Its Purest Form
Monday afternoon, 1:05 p.m. PDT
Paul Scaribelli drove his sleek, silver Cadillac Escalade onto the Los Angeles freeway entrance with a confidence and grim determination that he had not felt for a long time. Oh, he had had more than a few suspicions over the years, but until today he had never held positive proof. Paul was Bernadine Scaribelli's youngest son and had worked for Handsome Stranger and his Deputies for almost as long as his older brother Robert. He was an introvert, a shy, thin, sandy-haired youthful-looking man who kept mostly to himself and studied numbers for a living.
Robert's skills, in comparison, were mostly social and enabled him to effectively manage a band and the necessary accompanying equipment for a major stage show. For a large portion of each year both Robert and Paul were on the road, touring the country – and sometimes the globe – with Handsome Stranger's band. Paul spent the vast majority of his time keeping in careful contact with the Stranger's many investment advisors, since the band's financial needs varied widely based on the astonishing number of unique destinations to which it regularly traveled. Sometimes they needed to purchase all kinds of things to make a stage look sensational, or request additional funds for the spectacular, lavish parties that the Stranger was infamous for hosting afterwards. And then there were the smaller venues where their entire line of buses could blow in and out in less than a day, like a passing dust storm through a ghost town.
The Stranger's fortune was vast, most of it invested in a diverse portfolio of stocks, bonds, mutual funds, precious metals – a little bit of everything if you were permitted to look close enough. Over the decades, his album sales had generated a massive treasure trove of assets, with more revenue flowing in with each passing day. Residuals from ongoing album sales, concert revenue along with income from both print and television advertising… the money flowing into the Stranger's bank accounts never seemed to stop. By and large, this was the primary reason why the singer spared no expense while entertaining his guests – barring sheer stupidity, he quite literally had managed to accumulate more wealth than any one man could possibly spend in a single lifetime.
Therefore the entertainer known as Handsome Stranger was never short of cash, even with his luxurious estate, beachfront condo and several additional homes strategically located in foreign countries. Unfortunately, such affluence was also too much for any one individual to manage. During the early days when the money train had initially begun to roll ahead at full steam, the Stranger had reluctantly hired a team of well-known L.A. investment counselors to watch over his portfolio. But he was no fool, and he had also assigned Paul Scaribelli to carefully watch over the investors and protect his interests. "Be mindful of them but wary as well," he cautioned Bernadine's son, who was fresh out of college and eager to please. "Even the most loyal people can be tempted by greed. If they lie to you it will be tough to spot."
Fortunately the Stranger was himself quite capable of watching over things, as young Paul had yet to gain experience. Even though much of his time was spent touring and entertaining in distant cities, from the beginning Steven Kurnelowski molded his investment counselors into a team that checked and balanced each other. None of them knew for certain which peer was a fellow employee and which was a trained auditor or trusted ally. Further, much of their work overlapped, meaning that someone trying to skim profits away from the larger transactions might be caught by another who examined the same statements and paid close attention to the bottom line. The Stranger was famous for firing people who provided shoddy service, after all, and as a result his investment team changed members over the decades almost as quickly as his cadre of Deputies did.
The Cadillac surged ahead with a roar on the freeway while Paul continued to reflect nostalgically back to his past. The first ten years or so had been the toughest, truly an educational experience for him. Simply managing the Stranger's daily financial needs had proven to be a full time job – the rest of the portfolio had simply sat and waited, carefully invested and managed by the financial team. There had been a lot less cash to work with back then, when the band's spending habits were still reasonably frugal. Experience was always the best teacher, and Paul had benefited greatly from two decades of it. These days he spent most of his time communicating back and forth with the financial analysts, carefully monitoring and regulating their activities. His old job of managing the Stranger's personal finances was now merely the tip of the iceberg – he put in more than sixty hours a week trying to keep Handsome Stranger filthy rich while the PR team struggled to keep him a household name. Album sales brought in the most cash.
And through it all, with each passing year, the Stranger fired only those who were inept and continued to accept his paychecks. He was very compassionate toward employees who struggled through no fault of their own, and to those with families in need. It wasn't about 'getting even' when he terminated someone… more often than not, it was about an employee's negative attitude. Life was an adventure, the Stranger would point out on many occasions when he personally chose to confront someone. If you were just along for a simple ride, then you had no business hitching your train to his. He was after something more, people who wanted to EXCEL. Caught in the center of a rapidly expanding media empire, Paul Scaribelli's experience level naturally grew exponentially. Many people left the investment team as the decades passed, occasionally because an employee here or there stopped taking the job seriously. More often than not, however, termination was the inevitable result of repeated bad decisions.
Watching the road pass by, Scaribelli smiled wryly. More often than not, he thought silently. But there were plenty of crooks too, and those who chose to steal were carefully pruned and eventually turned over to the authorities. Handsome Stranger's administrative staff had an unofficial, ongoing relationship with the police, as a matter of fact. Most of the celebrities in the Hollywood area had representatives who kept in touch with the authorities. The Stranger's massive fortune was a natural magnet for liars, cheats and a never ending flow of con men. Paul had grown skilled at identifying them over the years, but the tough part of his job was coming up with concrete proof. After all, termination without cause was a situation begging for a frivolous lawsuit – to combat them the Stranger's staff also boasted over a dozen lawyers. And throughout the last decade, there had been one man who troubled Paul the most. One man always seemed to slip through the cracks, even though Paul knew he was guilty, and somehow manage to successfully cover his tracks well enough to mask his thievery.
Today, Paul Scaribelli had finally accumulated enough evidence to bring that person down.
Traffic had slowed considerably, and he glanced with frustration through the vehicle's front windshield. Eager for a final resolution to a problem that had haunted him for years now, Paul had left the Stranger's home a few minutes earlier than planned. The lunch rush had not yet fully abated, and he was caught behind a large bunch of vehicles that were barely moving. Perhaps there had been an accident somewhere up ahead, or possibly the delay was due to something else entirely. It was tough to know, in a large city like L.A., until actually reaching the site of the disturbance. Frustrated, Scaribelli decided to use the unexpected availability of free time efficiently. He pulled out his cell phone and attached it to the Cadillac's Bluetooth system and then dialed a phone number.
The connection rang just once before it was answered. "Los Angeles Police Department," a female voice efficiently informed him. "May I help you?"
"Yes," responded Scaribelli confidently. "Please connect me with Lt. Columbo."
The pause was brief. "The Lieutenant is currently unavailable. May I take a message, sir, or would you prefer to leave a message on his voice mail?"
"Tell the Lieutenant that I believe I know someone connected with the recent death at the Los Angeles Zoo," said Scaribelli. "I read the article in the newspaper regarding the killing, and the man who died used to work in the same building as my suspect. I've seen them together more than once, in fact." His mind was racing. Add to that the sudden appearance Adrian Monk earlier in the morning, and it wasn't all that difficult to put two and two together and get four.
"May I have your name sir, and also the name of your suspect?"
Smiling at the question, Scaribelli shook his head negatively. The last thing he needed at this point was a slander lawsuit if his suspicions somehow turned out to be wrong. "My name is Paul Scaribelli. Tell Lt. Columbo to meet me at the Security Desk on the second floor of the Blue Sky Plaza office building at 2:00 p.m. He'll be able to access it from an elevator in a parking ramp on the west side."
"Sir, I will give Lt. Columbo your message as soon as he returns, but I cannot guarantee that he will be able to meet your deadline."
"If he can't come personally, then just send another detective." His mood unaltered, Scaribelli thumbed a button to terminate the connection. Sitting almost totally idle in a sea of slow moving traffic, he studied the heat waves emanating off of the hundreds of other cars surrounding him. It was a brightly lit, sunny afternoon with just a few puffy white clouds, which only served to make the delay much more frustrating than he would have anticipated. I probably should have made the appointment for 2:30 p.m., he thought to himself with the added benefit of hindsight. Never one to question his judgment for more than an instant, he reactivated the Bluetooth phone system. "Call Mike," he stated tersely, tapping the system's software to access a prerecorded number.
This time the phone rang three times before the call was picked up on the other end. "Featherstone Investments, Michael Van Portman speaking."
"Hello Mike, this is Paul."
"Paul, how's my best client doing? I've been meaning to check up on you, but today has been a non-stop hassle. Did you get the files that I sent over to the Stranger's house?"
"I did." He reached over toward the passenger seat and softly patted the thick, bundled files setting there with his right hand. "I'm bringing them back to you right now, as a matter of fact."
"I trust you found nothing out of the ordinary." Despite the usual confident façade from the Investment Financier, Paul noticed the first hint of growing concern in the other man's voice.
"Everything's fine. I have some errands that took me downtown anyway, so I'm going to stop by for a few minutes and return the files to your office."
"You are? Well you wouldn't have had to do that. I could have sent a courier over to the house for them."
"It's not a problem Mike. Just get the coffee hot and ready, because I'll be there shortly. But it may be a few minutes yet… noon traffic is still pretty thick out here today."
"All right. I'll page Margie right now and have her bring up your favorite blend."
You do that, thought Paul furiously to himself, terminating the call with a flourish. You dirty rotten crook.
Monday afternoon, 1:27 p.m. PDT
As soon as the call from Paul Scaribelli terminated, Mike Van Portman paused just long enough to take several deep breaths in an attempt to contain his skyrocketing anxiety level. He could tell from the confidence and boisterous tone of voice that Scaribelli had used during the phone conversation that the man was on to him. There was no way he would personally stop by and return the huge files bulging with paperwork that Van Portman had given him unless he had found something useful. Scaribelli had never liked him much and was usually suspicious, most probably since Van Portman had been stealing from Handsome Stranger and other clients since the day he had been hired. But he had been skimming money very cautiously and in amounts small enough so that they could be carefully concealed amidst all of the thousands of bank transactions so commonly generated by rich clientele.
For Van Portman, today was suddenly his own personal judgment day. He had been aware of Scaribelli's suspicions for years, but had always managed to strategically use his secretary, Margie, as a barrier between himself and the accountants who worked for his clients. Margie held all of the 'official' documents, where everything appeared at first glance to be totally ordinary. Often times, the vast majority of Handsome Stranger's financial activity was in fact normal, since Van Portman had a history of skimming from the massive, frequent withdrawals the rock star regular made from his general account. If he called for forty thousand dollars, Van Portman would withdraw forty-five thousand and then manually adjust the invoices that crossed his desk to show that the extra five thousand had actually been spent.
With the Stranger, such thievery was easy. Pizza orders, emergency cleaning crews, pool cleaning, household maintenance, vehicle repair, tour expenses… the list of spending never stopped. In addition to having skills with make-up, Van Portman was also an excellent forger. Often times an invoice might prove too difficult to modify, in which case the investment counselor would simply forge a completely new one and file it as though it were the original. The high end clients he worked for spent so much money on so many little things that there was no possible way for them to remember it all. For example, how could Handsome Stranger come back to him in six months and remember with any assurance of clarity just how much food he had ordered from today's breakfast caterer?
Van Portman was admittedly a crook, but he was also intelligent. He was very aware of how easily one could leave behind evidence when stealing. In the long run, it was almost inevitable that he would miss something or an invoice would be sent to the Stranger's home address instead of directly to the office building. He also knew that the Stranger's team was famous for working with the police… which was why up until a few minutes ago his confidence had remained sky high. The police didn't have a clue as to who killed Devon Petersen, even after finding diamonds in the Zoo fountain. Up until today, there was simply no connection to him directly. Now, however, Paul Scaribelli was about to change all of that. Once he said anything to the police, it would take them very little time to notice that Blue Sky Plaza was the very same office building that Petersen and Frank Lauden had worked at prior to assuming their new positions at the Zoo. They would also notice that there was an abundance of jewel wholesalers in the neighborhood.
Once those connections were made, the rest of the pieces would all fall neatly into place.
Already Van Portman was scrambling toward his briefcase and the extra make-up kit inside, a duplicate of the supplies he kept in his desk at home. The jig was definitely up and there was no more time to wait for Frank Lauden to find the missing diamonds. He would have to retreat to his house, pick up the smaller batch of diamonds concealed there, and then make a run somewhere. Given the fact that he would be getting significantly less of a payoff after years of effort, he fervently wished that he had not impulsively killed Devon Petersen. In fact, if Lauden somehow managed to locate the missing ten million, he quite possibly could end up getting to keep all of it. That was a hard fact to swallow, and Van Portman briefly considered altering his escape plan to include a stop at Lauden's house. Just long enough to shoot him in the head, he thought bitterly to himself.
That would be too much of a risk, and even while wearing one of his famous disguises Van Portman was too frightened and cautious to take such a colossal risk. He had his new identity ready and, wherever he ended up, the skills necessary to resume operations elsewhere. Hell, with a couple of extra million to play with, he might even be satisfied with an ordinary income from this point forward. The thought distressed him somewhat, as he had always had higher aspirations, but once he was fully relocated and living under a new identity common sense clearly dictated that it would be difficult and downright dangerous to risk additional thievery. He would have to content himself with a massive bonus.
Sitting at his desk and working with a simple pocket mirror, he casually donned the disguise of a bald man with thick dark glasses, changed into less expensive clothing and then carefully checked his work. When he was certain that he looked completely different than his normal identity, he packed up his briefcase. Right before he left the office, he slipped an unregistered .38 special in his jacket pocket along with a large, razor sharp switchblade knife. The time on the wall clock read 1:46 p.m. Of course the timing would need to be perfect, but Van Portman was used to the adrenalin rush by now and eagerly anticipated that everything would go well. He had killed once already and he was ready to do so again, should the need arise. He would take pleasure in doing so, as a matter of fact.
Monday afternoon, 1:38 p.m. PDT
Squinting against the bright sunlight slicing through the afternoon heat, Lieutenant Columbo raised a calloused hand and its short stubby fingers above his eyes as he glanced briefly through the front windshield of his Peugeot. "Can you believe this?" he asked with a shake of his head and growing disbelief. "Wouldn't you know it, this kind of thing always happens to me!" He surveyed the myriad of other automobiles caught with him in traffic and glanced over at his passenger. "Even when I finally catch a break, I can't catch a break!"
Adrian Monk studied him curiously. "And just what does that mean?" he asked inquisitively.
Pausing for a moment to make certain, one final time, that there was absolutely no forward movement in the surrounding traffic, Columbo shifted the car into neutral. "I've been meaning to check out our next destination ever since we visited Mrs. Petersen and her daughter," he responded. "The Blue Sky Plaza office complex… it's where Frank Lauden and Devon Petersen worked prior to their zoo jobs."
Monk nodded in response. "I remember her mentioning the previous job, but not the name of the building." He raised an eyebrow as Columbo suddenly began digging around in his pockets, clumsily looking for something. There wasn't much room in the little car to begin with, especially while sitting behind the steering wheel. The comical sight of the elderly detective's struggle almost caused Monk to laugh, but he held back. Stottlemeyer really respected this guy, and that meant a lot to Monk.
"Mrs. Petersen gave me this right before we left," pointed out Columbo after another thirty seconds or so of searching, handing Monk a small cardboard business card with blue and black print. On it Devon Petersen's name was clearly visible in black script. The top left of the card sported a simple logo, a round circle of bright blue with the upper third of a yellow sun peeking up from the bottom of it. Blue Skies Office Plaza was printed above Petersen's name, and the card also contained a street address. At the bottom of the card right next to an E-mail address were two phone numbers, one for the receptionist's line and another for faxing.
"So why can't you catch a break?" Monk wondered, holding up his hands for emphasis. "I don't get it."
"Do you know Paul Scaribelli? Did you get to meet him?"
"Yeah, I was introduced to him earlier today, with Natalie and Julie while we were at Handsome Stranger's house." He shrugged his shoulders. "We basically shook hands and said hello."
"Well, something about your visit caused the pieces of a mental jigsaw puzzle to finally fit together in Mr. Scaribelli's mind. He phoned my office about an hour ago and claims to know someone at Blue Sky Plaza who he has seen with Devon Petersen while our murder victim was still working there. He urgently requested that I meet him at the Security desk at 2:00 p.m. sharp." Columbo smiled through his frustration as the car eased forward a few feet and then came to a stop behind a bright red Dodge pickup. "I was still busy checking out the local jewelry wholesalers and retailers when I heard about his call. Normally I would never be able to just up and go to a meeting like this, but the Captain and Chief Disher offered to finish up the list of interviews for me."
"So you finally caught a break by having us in the form of additional help…" Monk mused thoughtfully, looking out at the sea of traffic in front of them. "And now you're stuck in traffic and may still end up arriving late anyway. The situation is kind of ironic."
"Oh, it's very ironic," insisted Columbo, watching his counterpart's expression closely. "Have you figured out yet why your Captain brought you along with him to L.A.?"
"Ostensibly the reason he gave me was that you wanted to meet me personally," said Monk with a chuckle. "But I suspected immediately that there was more to it than that."
"Well, I certainly did want to meet you, Mr. Monk," nodded Columbo amiably. "I've been reading about your exploits for years now… you've solved some very high profile cases all by yourself." He frowned upon reading Monk's reaction. "Out of curiosity, just what specifically makes you think there was more to the Captain's motive? Because I have to tell you… I've known Leland Stottlemeyer for years and he's a pretty good guy."
Monk exhaled with mild frustration as he thought about the question. "Ever since we finally solved the mystery behind my late wife's murder, the Captain has seemed… oddly focused on keeping me up-to-date on all of the new policies and procedures currently used by the department." The former detective scratched his head irritably. "It bothers me, because I've admittedly pretty much settled into my routine as a consultant at this point. There isn't a whole lot that goes on anymore that I can't process, and my specific role is to look at all of the evidence and then help Stottlemeyer connect the dots."
"You don't want to go back to being a full-time police officer?"
Monk pondered the question carefully for a moment before continuing. "No. I'm usually the first one to waffle when it comes to making a decision, but at this point I guess I really don't," he admitted with mild embarrassment. "I always felt kind of out of place as a member of the force, because my personality has always leaned toward isolation. As a cop you have to be part of a team and back others up. So after I lost my job it just seemed as though the proper thing to do would be to get it back… to go back into the working world as soon as possible and be a productive member of society. For years after I was dismissed I expended a great deal of energy fervently trying to get my badge back. I've even officially been back for a short while and that only served to clarify things for me." He smiled wryly at the memories. "I remember the first case I ever consulted on like it was yesterday. We were in pursuit of an assassin targeting a candidate for mayor. It was a tough little mystery that ended up luring me back out into the world of police work because the higher ups wanted a second opinion. The Captain didn't like it one bit."
"Felt a little threatened by your presence, did he?" wondered Columbo. Although he took a moment to roll down his window and allow some fresh air into the vehicle, it was clear that Monk had his full attention. But he shook his head when Monk tried to roll down the corresponding passenger side window. "That one's not working for some reason," he pointed out with a wry grin. "I've been meaning to get it fixed." Studying Monk curiously, the Lieutenant waited for him to continue. When it became obvious a reply was not immediately forthcoming, he spoke up. "So how did it feel to be back as a consultant, but not as an official officer of the law?"
"Unusual," admitted Monk. "It was extremely unusual – uncomfortable actually – for the first year or two. At first I didn't think my return to crime solving would last long, but the department really liked my work and the Captain was able to set up an arrangement where I could get paid for solving crimes. After my nurse, Sharona left, Natalie came into my life and she even helped me take things a step further. She helped me set up shop as a part time private investigator." He harrumphed at the memory. "I fought her tooth and nail, at first, because she was spending all kinds of money on silly little things like business cards. But deep down I knew that those kinds of thoughts were just an excuse to avoid additional change in my life. Being a private investigator really grew on me once I began to help people solve cases. In this day and age, having a little extra money coming in now and then never hurts, either. So I guess you could say that I didn't realize just how content I was in my new role until I finally did end up recovering to the point where I was offered my old job back."
"What went wrong?"
"My gut instincts told me it was wrong," decided Monk without hesitation. "I managed to help solve a case, but put myself in danger in the process. Everyone, including the Captain, who used to praise me for my ingenuity, was suddenly pointing fingers at me because I took unnecessary risks or messed up on some sort of official procedure." He fell silent for a moment, thinking back. "It was a non-stop barrage of little things that just didn't feel right, especially the part about being responsible for the lives of other officers. That was a lot of pressure right there… knowing that I don't respond to intense situations in the same way that others do. I'm not…"
"…normal?" Columbo guessed, laughing out loud. "If God had wanted everyone to be normal Mr. Monk, He would have created pre-programmed robots and not people. You have feelings… emotions, and that's a large part of what makes your personality rare and unique. And as for this amazing thing you do with evidence… well, that's even more rare and more unique."
"Maybe you're right. I'm well aware of my… oddities, and so was everyone else." He took a deep breath and smiled much more confidently, as though he was glad to be getting a chance to really talk to someone. "Right after I consulted with the Captain on that first mayor/assassin case, I woke up one morning feeling really content… probably the best that I had felt since Trudy died. At the time I was still very much wounded, emotionally, from her death, but solving that particular case made me feel like I was at least getting out in the world and helping… even if only a little bit. And I was doing so by dealing with life on my terms for once, not having life dictate each day's events to me. It was a great feeling and a part of me was really hoping that I could hold on to that contentment."
Columbo pointed a stubby index finger at him. "You felt like you mattered, and yet you didn't have to put yourself in harm's way, walk a beat or worry about presenting an image to the public that the department wanted you to project. I think you felt so good because, for once, you could just be… yourself."
"Exactly. I remember thinking that it would be nice if I could wake up in ten years… or maybe even twenty, and still be confronting life on my terms and still feeling that good. I wanted to stay in my new niche, but kept wondering what I was missing out on back at the office. A small part of me felt that even if I never did end up getting my old job back, I'd still be okay… as long as I could keep doing what I do best. But for many years that part of me was overwhelmed by a strong desire to go back… because I really thought that going back was what really mattered. And when I finally got that second chance at working on the force, I finally ended up realizing that many things in life had conclusively changed for me even if I didn't want them to. I couldn't go back in time and prevent Trudy's death; she was gone and it was time to begin dealing with reality again. It dawned on me right there and then that being happy and working as a consultant was more important to me than being miserable as a cop."
Traffic was beginning to move slowly forward, so Columbo shifted the vehicle out of neutral and edged it cautiously forward. "We've all got to do what makes us happy Mr. Monk," he concluded. "My wife tells me that all the time and she's rarely wrong on these types of things. Your story just makes me believe that all the more." He flashed Monk a look of professional respect. "And I'm really glad you finally discovered who killed Trudy," he admitted in a rare display of emotion. "God only knows… if someone killed my wife? Well, let's just say that someone had better run and hide some place very far away where I'll never find him. I really believe the act of murder is evil in its purest form."
"Natalie told me that you've solved a lot of cases…" replied Monk hesitantly, trailing off for a moment before laughing with mild amusement. Emotions were often difficult for him to process. "Hundreds of them, in fact." He shook his head, unable to hide his feeling of astonishment. "I don't know yet if I can continue working for as long as you have, even in a limited role as a consultant. Think about it… more than four hundred cases… what a truly amazing thing you've done! I might not know how to properly say it, but it has been an honor for me too having the opportunity to meet and work with you."
"Thank you Mr. Monk," said Columbo, graciously accepting the compliment. "I appreciate that very much." He studied the steadily moving cars around them. "We're in luck! Traffic is moving again and there's still time… we may actually make it to our meeting with this Mr. Paul Scaribelli yet!"
Monday afternoon, 1:52 p.m. PDT
After finally breaking free from the mid-afternoon traffic, Paul Scaribelli drove his Cadillac Escalade father into the downtown L.A. area until he reached the massive, four-story parking ramp on the west end of Blue Sky Office Plaza. He stopped at the main gate just long enough to retrieve a paper ticket, computer-stamped with the current date and time, before driving onto the ramp. A security guard with thinning gray hair who sat in the booth behind the ticket dispenser waved casually at him in recognition. Smiling, Paul listened to the throaty roar from the SUV's engine as it auto-shifted into a lower gear. He drove around the outer spiral onto the gradually increasing incline toward the parking area's second level. At the head of the row, there were two clusters of mostly empty, reserved slots that the office complex deliberately set aside for VIP customers.
The offices inside Blue Sky Plaza were awash with financiers, lawyers, and other professionals providing specialty services for many of the Hollywood elite who regularly sought them out. Mike Van Portman was just one of dozens of investment counselors working in the building, but at this moment he was the only person Paul Scaribelli was concerned with. He grimly pulled into an empty parking spot and opened the driver's door, pushing it farther open with his foot. Reaching over to the passenger seat, he lifted and tucked both bundled, tightly bound files under his left arm and grabbed his briefcase with his right hand. Expertly he snapped his car keys to a clip on the briefcase handle and stepped out onto the black, asphalt pavement. Farther down the row, he heard the sound of another vehicle engine as it pulled away from its parking space and accelerated down the inner access ramp toward the street level below.
Walking a bit awkwardly in order to accommodate the heavy paper files, Paul moved toward the nearby elevator. Next to its brightly white-painted doors on the left side was a walkway leading back toward a stairwell doorway, which was clearly marked along the top of its frame with a small sign. There, the word 'Exit' glowed brightly in red letters on its surface. Because of his high standing as a member of Handsome Stranger's financial team, Scaribelli rarely had to use either the elevator or the stairs. He would just pass through the main building entrance to the right of the elevators. Most of the financial people with offices in Blue Sky Plaza were located on the second floor.
This time things were different. Scaribelli paused slowly in front of the elevators, an odd feeling appearing in his gut, signaling him that something was wrong. The instinct was confirmed seconds later when a man holding a gun in his left hand stepped out of the shadows in front of him. Bald and extremely tan, the man's eyes were completely hidden by a large pair of dark sunglasses. "Hello Paul," the stranger said dourly with a thin smile. "It's nice to see you got through traffic without any hassle."
"Mike?" said Scaribelli quizzically, squinting in the dim lighting. "Is that you?"
Although he didn't recognize the man's physical appearance, the voice sounded extremely familiar and Paul was able to make the connection. He froze almost completely in his tracks at the sight of the .38, and his adversary didn't hesitate. He calmly stepped forward while still smiling darkly and gestured malevolently with the hand gun. "I'll be taking those," the stranger snapped brusquely, gesturing toward the files neatly tucked under Paul's left arm. His right hand suddenly shot forward at high speed. In the dim lighting of the parking area, something flashed brightly as it reflected what little light was available. Scaribelli felt unexpected warmth along his lower left side, followed instantly by a stabbing jolt of intense pain. Gasping from the agony and sudden shock that followed, he staggered backwards a few steps, lost his balance and toppled onto the asphalt floor.
His vision clouded suddenly, but Scaribelli caught a brief glimpse of a knife sticking out of his left side. He touched the handle with his left hand and then stared dumbly at the wet, sticky blood on the tips of his fingers. His attacker held one of the large documentation files, having managed to grab it before it could fall. The other large bundle had landed next to him and burst free of its mostly rubber-banded binding. Through a haze of dizziness Paul noticed blood splattered on many of the loose sheets of paper. "You just couldn't leave things alone, could you?" he heard Van Portman say, and the other man's voice seemed to alternate between sounding near and distant. "Could you?"
Scaribelli's vision began to swirl clumsily back and forth. Van Portman shouted something else at him, but Paul wasn't hearing the words any longer. Images of the parking area, the bald man's face, the pavement beneath him, and a widening pool of blood briefly permeated the warm dizziness taking over control of his mind. For a moment, it seemed as if his hearing had simply been shut off – all he could hear was the internal sound of blood rushing through his brain as his body tried to recover from the unexpected injury it had just sustained. From his position lying helplessly, flat on his back, Scaribelli looked up vaguely at Van Portman standing over him.
"Good bye Paul," sneered the accountant heatedly, glaring down at him from above.
The last thing Scaribelli remembered hearing, just prior to blacking out, was the sound of someone shouting from behind him – from back in the general area where he had parked the Escalade. Head swimming, he struggled to remain conscious as the crack of two gunshots rang out from right above him…
Monday afternoon, 1:54 p.m. PDT
Upon rolling through the same check point that Paul Scaribelli had used only minutes earlier, Columbo drove leisurely up the winding, spiral driveway leading up to the second level. Once there, he slowed the car significantly, searching to the left and to the right for an open parking space. "There ought to be a VIP slot or two reserved for the police," he commented idly, frowning. They had finally escaped from mid-afternoon traffic only to arrive at a location where many of the vehicles regularly parked. "Cops are VIPs too, right?"
"We've got about six minutes until 2:00," Adrian Monk pointed out after briefly glancing at his watch. "There's still time."
"Yeah, I know, but good grief… it shouldn't be so hard to find a… AHA!"
Monk was thrown unexpectedly forward as Columbo braked suddenly. The sound of tires skidding on the asphalt followed soon after as the Lieutenant cackled gleefully in triumph. The white reverse lights of a burnt orange Pontiac to his left had come on, and he quickly shifted his own vehicle into reverse. "You really should get my seat belt fixed if you're going to be dynamiting your brakes like that," observed Monk with a scowl of disapproval, holding up the useless lap belt. "I certainly hope you don't do that with Mrs. Columbo in the car… you'd have to peel her off the windshield."
"Only when I need a parking space Mr. Monk!" replied Columbo triumphantly. He moved the vehicle back a dozen yards or so, making room for the Pontiac to back out. As soon as the other car was moving off toward the down ramp he roared forward, turned sharply and claimed the parking space for his own. He shut off the engine and removed his key from the ignition when Monk's comment finally registered. "Your seat belt doesn't work?" he asked curiously.
"Nope," Monk told him firmly. "Were you planning on getting it fixed at the same time as the window?"
Hesitating for a moment, Columbo finally grinned in response. "I do believe you're teasing me Mr. Monk!" he declared with a hearty chuckle. "Be very careful, because I do believe that your sense of humor is poking through all of that gloom and doom you usually carry around with you." He opened the car door and stepped out, with Monk following soon after. "Let's go see what this Paul Scaribelli has to say. It would certainly make sense if someone connected with Devon Petersen's murder works in this building."
"Earlier, you mentioned that you were planning on checking out this building anyway," Monk reminded him as they began walking toward the distant elevator area. "Without someone like Mr. Scaribelli to help you, where would you have started your investigation?"
"This is a building that consistently remains on our radar," noted Columbo wryly. He frantically searched the pockets of his rain coat for a cigar but only managed to find a small, partially smoked stub to chomp on. "The people who work in this office complex serve most of Hollywood's super elite… only the very, very rich. So you can imagine just how much dishonesty is in play at any given time in this facility. If we hadn't gotten a tip from Scaribelli, I would have started with the most troublesome people we've had problems with in the past and then worked my way down the list." They rounded a bend in the huge, spiraling concrete structure surrounding them. "There are minor complaints and tips coming in all of the time, and…" He jerked to a sudden stop and grabbed Monk's arm to bring him to an abrupt halt too. "What's going on down there?" the Lieutenant asked curiously, watching two men standing next to the still distant elevator. One of them suddenly stumbled backward and then flopped over onto his back.
Monk had opened his mouth to take another jab at Columbo for his sudden propensity to come to an abrupt halt. The joke died in his throat, however, upon noticing the obvious attack by one man on another. "Hey!" he shouted suddenly, his voice echoing through the parking area. "What's going on down there?"
The first shot from Van Portman's .38 buzzed past Monk's left ear and impacted against a cement column behind him. Columbo tackled him around the waist an instant later, causing both men to land on the dark black asphalt behind a tan Ford Mercury. The second gunshot shattered several of the Mercury's windows. "Be careful Mr. Monk," said the Lieutenant in a cautioning tone of voice. "I think we've found our killer, but we don't want him hurting anyone else if we can possibly avoid it."
A third shot rang out, and the bullet whistled past them on its way toward the deep, distant recesses of the parking area. "Ah, I don't mean to criticize…" said Monk, much more calmly than he would normally have expected of himself, "…but someone is trying to kill us! Shouldn't you shoot back?"
Columbo smiled ruefully. "I don't have a gun," he explained, waving both hands for emphasis. "I was desperately hoping that you brought one."
"Why in the world would I have a gun?" snapped Monk heatedly, huddling on his knees from pure fright behind the sturdy, reassuring length of the Mercury. "You're the cop for God's sake! I know how this stuff is supposed to work because I've been a cop and been dismissed on multiple occasions. When you join the police force, you receive a badge and a gun. And when you leave the police force, you turn in your badge and you turn in your gun!"
"What can I say?" growled Columbo somewhat irritably. "I hate guns, just like you Mr. Monk! I can't stand the things! When it's time to take the proficiency tests, I usually slip somebody a few bucks to take the test for me and sign my name. Besides, I don't remember anyone ever shooting at me before. If I think there could be violence when I confront people, I bring a patrolman along with me. That usually dissuades most suspects from causing trouble."
"Well you should have brought a patrolman here!" insisted Monk with growing annoyance. "Don't you have a cell phone or at least a radio?"
"No," said Columbo a bit more quietly as the direness of their situation settled onto his shoulders. "Unfortunately, I tend to shy away from modern technology as easily as you do."
"Wait a minute!" Monk hissed, exhaling nervously and slapping at his pockets in a manner that was strikingly familiar to Columbo's trademark move. "I have a cell phone… Julie loaned me hers so that I could get in touch with Natalie in case of an emergency." He pulled the small pink, flower-covered device out of the right pocket of his slacks and flipped it open, dialing as fast as his fingers could touch the numbers.
"9-11 emergency," said an alert, female voice an instant after the phone rang. "May I help you?"
A fourth shot slammed into the opposite side of the Mercury, and the metal doors of the vehicle trembled from the impact. "Gun… shootout… need help," stuttered Monk, his own nerves fraying more than a little.
"That one sounded like it was fired from a location much closer to us," mused Columbo nervously. "We're running out of time." He took the cell phone from Monk's hand, his tone calm but firm. "Blue Sky Plaza Parking Garage, second level. Murder suspect on site and shots fired; please send backup law enforcement." Still kneeling, he set the phone on the ground, leaving it open and connected with the 9-11 dispatch officer. Then he turned toward Monk with a concerned expression on his wrinkled face. "We've got to find a way to stall for time or we're going to end up in the same condition as Devon Petersen."
With anxiety crawling through his gut, Adrian Monk struggled to come up with a solution.
